


The King of Carnival

by Solea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Carnival, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinda, M/M, Sherlock in Lingerie, Sherlock is hot, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/pseuds/Solea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John track a murderer to a Fancy Dress Carnival party. Awesomesauce ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Carnival

_The only thing more pretentious than this fucking hall are the fucking people in it._

John’s thoughts are nothing if not mutinous as he weaves his way through the crowd of posh prigs peacocking around in their ridiculous carnival costumes. 

Murderer or no murderer, Sherlock owes him for this one. He flashes an extra friendly smile at the server from whom he accepted a glass of champagneand is annoyed beyond all reason that the bastard doesn’t even seem to notice. 

Of course, in hindsight, the server might not have been able to see his smile under the gilt monstrosity of a mask Sherlock had insisted he don for the event. It’s got  _feathers_  on it for fuck’s sake.  

At least that was the extent of his costuming, if you didn’t count the well cut tuxedo he didn’t own. At least he doesn’t  _think_  he owns it. It’s possible it was purchased instead of rented for him against his will by the same impossible, presumptuous, annoying  _git_ that was responsible this whole…thing. 

John finds his mark standing by a raised dais upon which four scantily clad dancers writhe against each other to a disturbingly dark electronic parody of Carnival of Venice.

It’s impossible to make out his expression behind the black and silver mask, but his eyes follow every movement of the lone male dancer in the group.

John suppresses a shudder as he watches the man eyeing up his prey suddenly sure that Sherlock is right— this is the bastard responsible for the murders that have darkened Carnival in London for the past four years. A serial killer who goes to ground for an entire year between murders making him almost impossible to catch.

 _Almost, but not quite,_  John thinks smugly. But the proof. They need the murder weapon, the one used on all the victims, that Sherlock is sure he’ll use again.

John sees the ornate hilt of some sort of knife peaking out past the richly embroidered surcoat and takes a last swig of champagne before setting the flute down on a handy glass topped table and maneuvering closer until he’s standing close enough to smell the musky cologne the guy’s wearing.

He leans against the wall and surreptitiously checks his cell phone for the time. There are only two minutes until midnight and whatever distraction Sherlock promised would give him the chance to pinch the knife. 

John rolls his eyes behind his mask. Between the freely flowing alcohol, the stages of half naked dancers and the heavy beat of the music vying for attention, even Sherlock’s going to have a hard time causing enough of a distraction to make a difference. 

The music suddenly shifts, the beat devolving to a low pulse of homophonic chords. The Emcee’s voice rings out across the system after a few moments during which John tries to ignore the feeling of tense anticipation the sound engenders.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Plague Doctors and Fools, Harlequins and Harlots it is time to greet the King of the Carnival!"

John winces as drunken cheers pierce his ears and watches the dancers turn towards the stairs, sees the black-masked man shift, clearly gathering himself, his fist wrapped around the pommel of the knife.

Just as John leaps forward, the lights are extinguished, plunging the hall into sudden inky blackness.

He gropes blindly in front of him…He’d been close enough to touch the bastard—

His hands close on a fist full of velvet and gold piping and he plants his feet, jerking backward to throw the murderer off balance. There’s a grunt in surprise and John hears his mask clatter to the floor.

Sudden light slams through his retinas and he winces even as he grapples with the man in his grip.

His eyes acclimate quickly to the coruscating swirl of colors washing over the vast, sweeping marble staircase as the gigantic windows flood with light brighter than daylight. 

The man suddenly ceases his struggles and John looks up to see what’s attracted his attention. His jaw drops and he almost forgets what he’s doing, as transfixed by the imposing figure above them as the rest of the crowd.

 _Distraction indeed._ John’s lips twist upwards in an appreciative smile.

Blue-black glossy feathers crown a fierce mask perched delicately above prominent and very familiar cheekbones. It’s the only thing covering Sherlock’s body other than the scrap of a black g-string which does far more to set off the chiseled muscles in his legs and stomach than attempt to cover them.

The feathers sway as the mask turns, the broad sweep of a king regarding his subjects and screams erupt again as he starts stalking down the stairs, his hips swaying provocatively with every step and the muscles in his stomach and chest snaking sinuously under skin that shames the surrounding marble. 

John rips his attention away from the vision when he feels the murderer twist in his grip, and experiences moment of horror at the unabashed, ferocious hunger contorting his features as he tries to lunge towards the stairs, his dagger still in his hand. 

"Oh  _hell_  no.” John snarls and twists the arm he’s holding up fast and hard behind the man’s back, relishing the pop of his shoulder as it dislocates and the resulting scream muffled against the marble floor where he comes to rest with John’s knee keeping him solidly in place as he fishes cuffs out of the inside pocket of his tux. 

When he looks up again, Sherlock is standing at the bottom of the stairs, head cocked to the side. His eyes glitter from behind the mask as he meets John’s and his full, lush lips turn up in a pleased grin.

He makes his way forward through the crowd and it parts in front of him like water until he stands directly in front of John.

It’s only then that the people notice the man on the floor and the knife, which is actually a very ancient-looking stiletto lying not far away and the susurrus of surprise turns rapidly into panic.

"You may rise," Sherlock’s mellifluous voice cuts through the noise just as the music stutters to silence and the emcee begins requesting that everyone back away.  John barks out a laugh and takes Sherlock’s proffered hand to get to his feet, peeling his mask off his forehead. 

"You mad bastard," John chuckles and Sherlock’s entire body shakes in almost silent laughter. 

"Is that any way to talk to your King? Is that my tribute?" Sherlock reaches and pulls John towards him and John gives in gracefully to the inevitable, stepping over the sobbing man on the floor and  running his hands over Sherlock’s chest, which still seems like it’s glowing in the limelights. He’s peripherally aware of the hall doors slamming open as he tilts his head back to accept a kiss from his lover.

"Keep the mask, your majesty. Might have use for it later." 

~Fin

You can see the fic and the phenomenally HOT pic that inspired it on my  [tumbler account.](http://soleawrites.tumblr.com/post/94382937968/king-of-the-carnival) Thanks for reading!!


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